


Five Weeks

by justbreathe80



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe80/pseuds/justbreathe80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five weeks of being back from Canada. Five weeks without Fraser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> for sageness for out_of_con_txt
> 
> Thanks for lordessrenegade for the beta, and to brooklinegirl for coming up with the idea.

Three. Yeah, he’s definitely had three by this point. He slams the shot glass down onto the bar, hard, and gestures for another. Three is fucking _nothing_. He has grand plans to get shitfaced, and it’s going to take at least three times that to really wipe everything out.

He knows he’s pathetic. The bartender knows his name and has been running a tab for him now that he’s been in here every night after work, until closing time, for the last five weeks. Five weeks of being back from Canada. Five weeks without Fraser. He doesn’t want to be home when Fraser calls from three thousand miles away, trying to figure out if Ray’s okay, understanding but cold in that way that only Fraser can be. So, he gets drunk instead.

The bartender, Mike, is sliding another shot of whiskey across the bar when Ray hears someone sit down beside him. When he musters the energy to turn his head, Vecchio’s sitting there, arms crossed over his chest, smiling.

“Hey there, Stanley,” Vecchio drawls. “What are we drinking?”

“My name’s Ray, you asshole. Shouldn’t be too hard to remember,” Ray replies, downing the shot in one swallow, feeling the burn all the way down his throat. God, he hates this guy.

“Okay, Ray, what the hell are we drinking?”

Ray sizes Vecchio up, taking in his charcoal-gray wool pants, his crisp white shirt, black Italian leather shoes. He’s tan, and Ray has to admit, despite the fact that Vecchio’s an asshole with a huge nose, that it suits him.

“Whiskey. I heard you were back in town. Stella get fed up?” Ray says, knowing it sounds mean, but not being able to control it.

Vecchio laughs. “Yeah, something like that,” he says, as Mike slides a shot toward Vecchio. He catches it, and Ray watches as he downs it, his throat working. Ray swallows hard. Yeah, that’s the last fucking thing he needs. He’s hard up enough that even the Style Pig is getting him all worked up. “And how ‘bout you, Kowalski? What happened to you and Fraser and your Canadian honeymoon?”

Ray’s torn between wringing Vecchio’s fucking neck and getting the hell out of there. He’s plastered enough to go for option three, so he puts his head in his hands and says, “Honeymoon’s over. Fraser – well, Fraser’s Fraser, right? He asked me to leave, so I left. End of story.” He doesn’t know why he was telling Vecchio any of this. Maybe because there isn’t anyone else to talk to. Can’t call up his mom and say, “Hey, Ma, can we talk? ‘Cause my Mountie boyfriend sent me back to Chicago, and it’s kind of fucking me up.” And Vecchio knows Fraser, was his _friend_, so maybe he gets it. Just a little.

Ray feels Vecchio’s hand grasp his bicep and squeeze, and Ray closes his eyes. “That sucks. Want another one?” Ray opens his eyes, and Vecchio’s gesturing at the line of shot glasses on the bar.

“Nah,” Ray says. “I’m good.” Vecchio’s hand’s hot on his skin, and he’s started to stroke his fingertips under the hem on the sleeve of Ray’s t-shirt. “’M gonna go to the can.” Ray pulls away and struggles to his feet, and, _fuck_, he’s drunker than he thought. He stumbles, just a little, toward the back of the bar, and he can hear the footsteps behind him. He swings open the door to the bathroom, and before he can even get his hands down to unbuckle his belt, Vecchio has him up against the door, pushing into him hard. Ray can feel the soft wool of Vecchio’s pants under his fingers, where his hands rest on Vecchio’s hips, and he can feel Vecchio’s hard dick pushing into his hip. He throws his head back against the door and bites back a moan. _Christ_. He shouldn’t be doing this, it’s so fucking stupid, and it’s _Vecchio_, for fuck’s sake, but it feels so good he can’t stop it. He should have stopped it at the bar, if that’s what he really wanted.

“Fraser’s a stupid shit sometimes,” Vecchio whispers, his breath hot on Ray’s ear. Vecchio smells like whiskey and cologne, and Ray takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah,” he gasps out as Vecchio opens the buttons on Ray’s jeans and reaches inside his boxers to stroke Ray’s cock.

Vecchio’s hand is sure and tight around him, and it’s not going to take much, because Vecchio’s stroking him like making Ray come is the best thing, the _only_ thing. And a few minutes later, Ray can’t help that he feels like crying when he comes all over Vecchio’s hand and his pants, making a huge fucking mess and sobbing, like a little girl. Vecchio just holds him there, pressed tight up against the wall, soothing him with soft strokes at the base of Ray’s skull with the hand that isn’t still down his pants, holding him through it. He’s whispering nonsense into Ray’s ear, things like, “it’s okay,” and “I’ve got you,” and Ray doesn’t even have the energy to push him away and get the fuck out of here.

After a few minutes, someone starts banging on the door, yelling to get in, so Vecchio takes his hand out of Ray’s pants and pulls back enough to snap a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe off his hand. Ray fumbles to get the buttons on his jeans closed. He doesn’t want to look at Vecchio, he _can’t_, he just needs to get out of here. Vecchio’s still cupping his neck, and tilts Ray’s chin up with his other hand.

“Hey, let’s get out of here, okay?” Vecchio says softly. Ray just nods and follows him out of the bathroom. There’s a message on his machine when he gets home, Vecchio dropping him off at the curb with a hard, hot kiss, and he knows who it’s from before he even presses the button. As he sits there listening to Fraser talk on the other end of the line, he realizes that for the first time since landing in O’Hare, the sound of that voice isn’t breaking his heart.


End file.
